


Unwind

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 12:06:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5374634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She closes her eyes and leans against his shoulder. His hand cups her hip; it’s a good fit (it always is), better even than couture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwind

**Author's Note:**

> himualex day 12/7/15!

He’s in the produce aisle when she sees him, browsing the yellow bell peppers and she doesn’t need to see his face to know the expression, squinting slightly and trying to judge whether each piece is good enough for dinner or not. Even now he still has that fixation on perfection, is still reluctant to buy a pepper with even the tiniest blemish (even though he’s seen for himself the unblemished ones that have gone moldy inside—superficial perfection is no kind of guarantee). And she knows he knows she’s there before she touches him; his perception is too good not to—she slides her arms around his waist and he barely reacts, still staring at the pepper as if he’s lost in thought. She rests her chin on his shoulder and contemplates biting his ear, although that might be too much for the middle of the grocery store.

“Tatsuya…”

She half-whines his name, and that’s enough to get him to turn his head and get trapped into a kiss—for a second he loosens his grip on the pepper in his hand. And then she remembers her other reason for approaching him now rather than later, and drops the jar into his basket.

“Maraschino cherries?”

His tone is overly doubtful; if they were face to face Alex would probably stick her tongue out at him. It’s her money and she can buy what she likes (and she has a weakness for preserved fruit, as well as the more-than-occasional Manhattan).

“I need your help,” she says, tugging on his arm. “Those peppers are fine; we’ll be cooking them anyway.”

She grabs the pepper in his hands; it feels fine—it’s not too soft; the skin is smooth. She drops it into the bag in his other hand and tugs on his arm again.

“Where are we going?” he says (he’s given in; it’s not usually this easy—he must really be tired; Alex is always of the opinion that they make him work too hard but this is especially egregious).

“Coffee aisle.”

She slips her hand into his and slows her pace; they find each other’s walking rhythm almost instantaneously, like well-trained musicians in a chamber ensemble performing a familiar piece; they don’t have to look at each other, only feel it out. They reach the coffee aisle; there on the top shelf are the can of Alex’s favorite brand.

“I need a tall, strong man to get down the coffee,” she says.

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m only an inch taller.”

“That’s enough,” she says. “I’d be so disappointed if you did…”

Tatsuya grins. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

He stands on his tiptoes, pulling at a can—he yanks it out fast enough for the one on top to fall cleanly into its former spot, and drops the can into the shopping basket.

“My hero,” Alex says.

This puts him in a better mood, and by the time they get to the checkout line he’s grabbed an extra jar of pickles and some cookies—she decides not to mention how unnecessary they are, at least for now.

* * *

Her after-dinner shower is a relief, a release from the grime and filth resulting from playing basketball in the summer sun all day; the pounding of the water on her back eases the tension in her muscles as she scrubs the dirt from her skin. She feels fresh and relaxed when she gets out, even with her wet hair sticking to her back, and once she’s got a towel and clean underwear she pads back out to the living room in bare feet.

Tatsuya’s watching something on TV (without her glasses she really can’t tell what it is and the flashing lights are just irritating); he’s got the sound on low, too. She flops down beside him, kissing him squarely on the mouth. His arm winds around her waist; his hand is cool and his fingertips are smooth. He tastes smooth and a little bitter, like cream ale, and he still smells sweet and smoky.

She’s caught the noise of the television; she knows those voices very well.

“How’s the game?”

“All right. Atlanta’s winning, though.”

She closes her eyes and leans against his shoulder. His hand cups her hip; it’s a good fit (it always is), better even than couture.

“So?” she says.

“When I turned it on they were already up 10-5,” he says. “Then Crowley got fouled but there was no call, so she got mad at the ref and almost got a technical.”

She nuzzles his neck; the tone of his voice softens like warm dough.

He continues, describing the events of the game as they’d happened (but in no real order other than relevance) and she listens, laughing at the embellishments he makes as he goes along. He likes being the one to explain things, an odd sort of role-reversal—although that’s not quite all it is, and to say so would be a disservice. And the flow of his voice cascades like soft sand down the side of a dune, mesmerizing in its tone—he’s managed to sweet-talk her into doing a lot of things she’d had reservations about, although he gladly takes any blame when those things go bad. The TV station goes on commercial break, and Tatsuya’s nearly caught her up with the game—even with distractions and embellishments, his synopsis is short enough (and preferable to the way the announcers would have told it in real-time, although Alex supposes she might be biased).

They listen to the announcers’ familiar rapport as the first half winds down, the deficit shrinking—it’s not enough to tie the game but it’s enough for hope of a win to be reasonable (although there’s nothing reasonable about being a sports fan in the first place). She opens her eyes midway through the halftime report; he hasn’t said anything in a while and his breathing has evened out—and sure enough, he’s asleep on her shoulder. She sighs; he really shouldn’t overwork himself so much, and at that he jolts awake from his slumber, raising his head.

“You can go back to sleep.”

He yawns. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “I should go to bed, too.”

It’s enough to make him acquiesce this time, at least—he can be so stubborn about doing things for particular reasons, so odd in his rationalizations—but it’s just so Tatsuya, especially because he knows he’s not fooling her. And she’ll indulge him right now because he does need his sleep—and because in and of itself it’s not a terrible thing.

She catches him in the doorway to the bedroom, pressing another kiss onto his mouth—it’s drier but he still tastes the same; his lips still press softly against hers, less pushy this time. His hands find the bare small of her back, trace patterns between memorized locations of her freckles (and he thinks she doesn’t notice when he does it early in the morning when they’ve already kicked off the blankets—or maybe he doesn’t care).

She cups his cheek; he’s close enough for her to really see his smile, bright and full like a ladle brimming with hot soup on a cold day. And then he kisses her again, sweeter and slower, pressing his whole body against hers—and not that Alex has ever thought otherwise, but being relatively the same size is very nice, especially when the edge of her hand fits so snugly on the corners of his jawline and his arms are the perfect length for his elbows to curve around her waist.


End file.
